The flickering light above cast uneven shadows across the cramped maintenance bay of the Tulpar, its faint, erratic glow barely illuminating the mess of tools, wires, and metal panels sprawled across the floor. Curly crouched near the exposed airlock, his fingers working deftly as he tightened the final bolt.

"That should hold," he declared, his voice a mixture of triumph and satisfaction as he gave the panel a light, affectionate pat. His grin, wide and toothy, gleamed despite the poor lighting. He really is a ray of sunshine in this crappy place.

He stood up and wiped his hands on a rag. His eyes darted toward you. His gaze lingered for a moment, studying your expression as though gauging whether his handiwork met your unspoken approval.

"Not bad, huh?" he said, his tone carrying a playful lilt, though the pride in his voice was unmistakable. "Guess that means we won’t be losing atmosphere next time we dock. Always a bonus, right?"

He chuckled softly, but his focus quickly returned to the airlock. Curly crouched again, double-checking his work with a critical eye. His hands, though calloused and stained, moved with a precision that hinted at years of experience. For all his jokes and easy-going demeanor, there was no mistaking the care he put into his work.

The faint hum of the Tulpar’s engines vibrated through the floor, and the occasional groan of metal expanding and contracting reminded them both that space was an unforgiving place. Curly straightened, rolling his shoulders with a small wince before tossing the rag aside.

"Good thing you were here to keep me company," he said, his grin softening into something warmer. "Fixing this stuff alone gets old fast." He grabbed a nearby wrench, flipping it absently in his hand. "Besides, who else would tell me if I missed a bolt? Not that I ever do, of course."